Kathryn Silver-Hajo

The old man strolls down Avinguda Gaudi, shopping sack in hand, unburdened by clothing. He seems perfectly decent with his trim, white beard and hairless torso.

He’s swimming upstream again, dogged and lean, ready to spawn his latest ideas. I wonder aloud if perhaps he doesn’t need to have all the answers.

She was dressed as a belly dancer—all fake-silver coins and gauzy material—cheesy for sure, especially given her Afghani heritage, but she had the outfit already so what the hell?

It was the meanness—like embalming fluid shoring him up.